


Nocturn and the Harbinger

by VenetaPsi



Series: Poetic Gamers [2]
Category: Banana Bus Squad
Genre: Extended Metaphors, M/M, Metaphors, Sort Of, life and death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 05:57:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20559371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenetaPsi/pseuds/VenetaPsi
Summary: Evan is Death, in all its glory. Nokternal, Nocturn, the shadow and lunar. He holds fire in his hands, in his eyes, ripples outward like force wave. Lacking is in his voice, destruction in his song. He is sad and light, mortal and beyond, a shining bird with golden wings and talons dipped in blood.Kryoz is everything Evan is not.





	Nocturn and the Harbinger

Evan is Death, in all its glory. Nokternal, Nocturn, the shadow and lunar. He holds fire in his hands, in his eyes, ripples outward like force wave. Lacking is in his voice, destruction in his song. He is sad and light, mortal and beyond, a shining bird with golden wings and talons dipped in blood. 

He didn’t know at first. Couldn’t see how he was different, that people told him he was destined for great things while they tried to pretend he didn’t exist. He lived life blind, freeing, while people around him watched with fear and envy as his power grew. Evan couldn’t see the sharp look in his own dark eyes, like he was hunting prey, disguised by the tiny smiles and forced laughs he so genuinely felt. 

He was lonely, alone, so secluded by a barrier he felt between himself in others, sealed off by his own minds desire to be alone and cripled with an inability to talk to others. People hated him for being cold, cocky, holding his status above them. He hated himself for hiding, pretending, trying not to see just how high up he was. The more they glared the more he shrunk and the more his barrier grew, the more solid the iron bars became. It held him down, sharp weight and painful spikes until he was drowning in molten metal and blood. 

He is the stars and the ashes, brilliant endless creativity and cold, grey soot that sits heavily in the background. He became flashes of quick wit and quiet, subdued laughter; pointed, sudden barbs and low, humming banter. He floated high in the sky, a prinkpick of light unnoticed by most but admired by all. 

It is him, Vanoss, Nocturn, the Owl of the Night, a solitary hunter with shining eyes and rapid fast reflexes. He survived on himself, on his own skills and resilience and he was scared of the sun, of the scorching heat of others and the blinding glow of people. 

Kryoz is everything Evan is not.

He is the Harbinger, the one who told Evan in an instant with merely his presence that change would be coming soon. He is loud and quiet, confident and genuine, a juxtaposition that’s so real and solid and _alive_ that Death can’t understand it. Evan watches in confusion, his neat little world unhinged at this shining bullet, loaded and aimed but with no finger on the trigger. 

John is nimble fingers, slowly unraveling the scenes and it scares Nocturn, upsets the balance as Evan tries to repair the damage done. He finds himself spending longer and longer hours in the sunrise, infuriated, trying to put an end to the Harbinger’s nonsense and John has no idea what he’s doing.  
Or maybe he does, and that’s why he smiles, all pale skin and glowing hair and piercing eyes, wrapped up in shadow and light and little bands of metal and jewels that remind Evan of stars and death. 

Evan is a hunter of his own making and John watches as he struggles to fly, to regain his balance. Nocturn is dark and gentle, all delicate features mixed in with raven hair and the eyes of night. He’s powerful and John revels in it, basking in the waves of pure stardust that radiate off of him. 

He sees that cracks in Evan’s facade, watches Death; sad and reserved and that simply won’t do. So he stands up and walks over and slips through those growing holes and starts to weave them back together. 

Nocturn fights him, as the Harbinger expected he would. John is careful, patient, quiet and it works. Evan’s walls slowly come down and John climbs to meet him, to draw him in. He can’t explain his fascination, this sudden urge to fix something when he’d never cared before. But then never had he seen a creature such as Vanoss, larger than life and crumbling under it, explosive with potential but drenched to the bone. 

No one else had captured the Harbinger’s attention, had _deserved_ his help. And he can’t force himself to leave Nocturn's side. He’d die in Death’s shadow just to stay and watch him deal the final blow. 

No one talks of Nocturn anymore. Nor did they ever talk about the Harbinger, as unremarkable and flippent as he was. But now they speak of a pair, Death and his scythe, Nocturn and the Harbinger, one entity; neither complete without the other. 

For they’re together, a link now that John has wedged his way into Evan’s life and the Owl has built a place for him, specially made and with more care than Death had ever given anything before. Now they are a powerhouse, conjoined, eternal, Glowing gold and blood; Shining metal and wind. He is Night and the other is Day’s child, one is the bringer of destruction and the other the cultivator.

Evan is Death and John is Life. Neither good, neither evil. Impossible without one another.

They are Nocturn and the Harbinger, Evan and John, Dark and Light.

They are One.


End file.
